Pretty Maids All in a Row
by storm101
Summary: Cain knows exactly who is organizing the recent bombings in London: the difficulty is getting the evidence he needs to convince high society of Lord Gladstone's corruption. What's an amateur sleuth to do but don a dress and infiltrate his party? And if he makes friends of the staff, all the better. For information only. Of course. / AU, runs parallel to Quite Contrary, Riff/Cain.
1. Chapter 1

**See end of chapter for notes. **

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Cain C. Hargreaves, Earl of Cornwall, leaned his desk chair back on two legs and tried to balance a pen on his nose. This endeavor failed, and the pen dropped to the floor, rolling away and under a nearby table. With an exasperated groan, Cain let the chair's legs thunk back to the floor, glaring at the stack of papers on his desk.

Data. That was the current problem. Data, data, data-oh, what was that wonderful phrase he'd read recently? "I cannot make bricks without clay," yes, that was it. Distressingly accurate for the current situation.

It was maddening, really. He had all the threads, neatly braided together into a single, coherent plot. The recent spate of bombings in central London, the downswing in property values as a result, the immediate purchase of the bombed properties, by one of three men… They had a common factor: Lord Cassandra Gladstone, pet philanthropist of high society.

Though Cain had never encountered the man himself, his reputation was more than enough for Cain to find the man somewhat distasteful. He naturally distrusted anything or anyone the general population fawned over. In Gladstone's case, he suspected hypocrisy-the man seemed far too pleased with the adulation to truly be the altruistic philanthropist he claimed. There was something rotten in the state of Denmark, and in this case, Cain was quite sure it was Lord Cassandra Gladstone.

The difficulty was the complete and utter lack of hard evidence.

Cain dropped his head onto crossed arms, long fingers playing absently with his inkstand. The bombings were too deliberate, too organized, to be merely the work of a gang, regardless of what the Belk Boys claimed themselves. And Gladstone wouldn't wish to risk meeting with the thugs in person, so there must have been a messenger. And where there was a messenger, there was a weak link. Particularly if, as Cain suspected, Gladstone was too paranoid and mistrustful to allow a messenger to know what they were relaying-which meant written communication rather than verbal. In short, hard evidence that Lord Cassandra Gladstone was up to his neck in the criminal underworld, and quite pleased with the arrangement.

And Cain needed that hard evidence before acting, which meant he needed to get into Gladstone's manor, somehow, and without arousing his suspicions. So, a disguise, preferably worn to a large party, somewhere he could blend into the crowd. The best and easiest disguise, of course, was the dress, but he hadn't worn it into such a large gathering before. Besides which, usually the informants he used it on were already intoxicated to such a degree that a slip wouldn't reveal him for a man. There would likely be eyes on him, and Gladstone himself was no fool. But, if he could slip away, get the layout of the house… He would be that much closer to finding some sort of hard evidence to use against Gladstone.

The inkstand wobbled as the earl stood, pressing his hands down onto his desk. The dress, then. He'd never been one to back away from a challenge, after all. And this would be a marvelous test-if he could pull off being a woman in a more public place, it opened all sorts of doors to his investigations. An alter ego would be invaluable in his line of work. Gladstone's next soiree would be a week from tomorrow night. Plenty of time to gather the finishing touches and pull together a full plan. How hard could it be?

* * *

A week passed, and Cain Hargreaves was doing his damnedest to slip through the crowd to avoid Gladstone's attention. He couldn't decide if he had been too arrogant to think this would actually work as a plan, or not arrogant enough to remember he made a very beautiful woman. Suffice it to say Gladstone's suspicions had not been aroused… His interest was another matter entirely. Now, if he could just lose Gladstone long enough to slip out of the party and do some proper investigating-

He ran straight into something solid and flailed for a moment, having lost his balance in the blasted heels he was wearing. Someone reached out and touched his shoulder, steadying him, and when Cain managed to regain his equanimity and look up, he saw it was the man he had just collided with. He was tall, very tall, with hair more white than blond falling into bright blue eyes, and his hands were large and steady on his shoulders and Cain could feel the heat of them through the silk of his dress. Unsteady for an entirely new reason, Cain reached up and wrapped gloved hands around the man's upper arms. Very strong indeed…

"God above, I'm sorry!" he gasped out, keeping his voice high enough to be passably female, and tossing his head so that the wig's curls would stay out of his eyes. "I'm so sorry, but I… he won't stop pestering me," he admitted, "And he wants to take me to bed, but he can't, and…" Cain trailed off. How disgustingly honest, and to a man he hadn't even met properly. Still… there was something vaguely familiar about him. Like a dream he had had as a child, smoke and memory and mirrors brought to life abruptly.

His hands were still on his shoulders.

"Understood, milady," the man said with a laugh, deep and rich and with a startled quality to it that suggested he didn't laugh very often. "Please, feel free to use me as a shield as necessary." He released her shoulders and stepped to the side, allowing Cain enough space to dodge behind his back.

Cain mostly resisted the impulse to bury his nose in between the man's shoulders. Even so, he smelled like soap and cotton and starch and beneath that, faintly, strong black tea. Cain swallowed, and peered carefully around the man's arm. "I thought I lost him," he hissed, glaring at Lord Gladstone, who was slowly working his way through the crowd, still searching. "He can't see me alone…!" The thought occurred to him suddenly, and he slipped out from behind the man and caught his sleeve. "Dance with me? Please?"

The man pulled his eyes away from the ballroom to stare down at him, mouth slightly open, as if to begin to protest. Cain felt himself flush. Had he actually suggested that? "I know it's quite forward of me," he started, hand tightening on his sleeve, and feeling slightly humiliated, "but I haven't an idea as to what else to do. I don't possess the social skills or patience to turn him down. He won't listen!" Had he drunk enough wine to blame it for his inability to control his impulses? He should turn and walk away now and leave the party, rather than-

"No, madam, it's nothing of the sort," the man said, still staring at him with an attention that sent a chill down Cain's spine, "I understand the situation, believe me, it's simply…" he trailed off again, before a nearly inaudible sigh escaped him and he removed Cain's hand from his sleeve, and bowed over it. "You must forgive me my clumsiness," he said, meeting his eyes again. "It has been years, since I last danced. May I have my lady's name?"

He was actually agreeing to a dance? But… Oh. Oh, damn. Cain swallowed. He'd forgotten to plan that far ahead. A name, a pseudonym-all the female names he could think of were former lovers, and that was an ill-advised step in a dangerous game. "Mary," he blurted, finally. "Mary… Harrell." Better to be called by his sister's name than by one of his former flings. "May I have your name as well?" The man tensed, his grip on Cain's hand loosening, but Cain refused to drop it and tightened his grip. "There are many people here I am familiar with, but… I'm afraid to admit that I don't know you at all."

"I…" he hesitated, avoiding her gaze. "I am not surprised you do not know me, milady. My name is Riff Raffit, and I…" he swallowed. "I work in Lord Gladstone's manor."

"Oh," Cain breathed. Riff Raffit, a servant-no wonder he was so familiar, when, as a boy… Fate plays a most interesting game of her own devising, for Cain to meet that man here, tonight… The only man who saw him when he was a child, cowering from his father's whip, little more than a wraith in his own home…

_"Hello, there. Are you lost? Are you all right?" _

_ "…You… can see me?" _

Cain pulled himself forcefully away from his memories, and smiled shyly up at the man, Riff. He looked as if he wanted to hide, and Cain tightened his grip. Oh, no. He wasn't going to lose him again, not this time. "And it is your master that I am hiding from," he said instead, sweetly, keeping his eyes on his face. Again, he was surprised, and an unsteady and nearly giddy warmth was spreading from Cain's chest down through his arms, until he was certain Riff must feel the heat in his fingers, too. "I've often found the servants at these sorts of parties kinder than the guests. Though I'd hate to get you in trouble…" He took a step forward, forcing a dancer's embrace or a scandal-or, at this rate, both. "If not, I certainly don't mind that you're a servant, Mr. Raffit."

Riff stared at him for another long few seconds, before his face relaxed into another shy, self-conscious smile. "Even if you do, I believe it might… might be worth it," he said, and guided him onto the dance floor, promptly presenting a new problem: Cain knew how to lead, not follow. Focused on his feet and the warm hand at his waist, Cain hardly noticed the stares. Aside, of course, from Riff's. He needed to step backwards, if Riff were to lead, then to the… right? Cain made it through a single box step successfully, before he got distracted by how close he was to the taller man and fell into old habits, stumbling into the servant and treading on his feet. He huffed, feeling rather caught and humiliated, and opened his mouth to apologize.

But, of course, that couldn't go smoothly either, though luckily Riff seemed to blame himself far more than his partner, finally laughing when they apologized simultaneously. "I'll forgive your clumsiness if you'll forgive my lapse of memory?" the servant suggested with a smile, less hesitant than his earlier ones. Cain's breath caught for a moment, and Riff added a quick "Milady," embarrassed that he had forgotten.

The very tips of his ears were turning pink, and Cain laughed, more freely than he should have. "Perhaps…" he teased, taking a step closer, "Perhaps dancing is something neither of us is quite proficient at."

"No, indeed," Riff agreed reluctantly, slipping away and off the dance floor again. "Though I'd hoped to protect you."

Cain stiffened, startled, but the sentence was so quiet, so offhand, and so unbearably sincere that he had to have meant it. He tugged Riff back, studying his face. He couldn't have meant it, though. There had to have been some ulterior motive… But there was none Cain could see. Only a slight confusion, that same concern. "Protect me," he repeated. Riff nodded slowly, though unaware of the motion. "I think… I think I should like for you to protect me."

That was the decisive moment, where all consequences and ramifications began. That moment, with their fingers entwined and Riff's eyes full of nothing but sincerity and tender concern, with the word 'protect' hovering in the air between them… that moment Cain decided he wanted this man. Wanted to be able to turn to him at any moment, for comfort and affection and gentle care, wanted him near, nearer than the very air around him. Whatever it took, Cain would have Riff Raffit.

His thoughts were shattered as Gladstone seized Riff's shoulder, forcing him away from Cain. The back of the lord's hand cracked across his servant's cheek, and Riff stumbled, one hand going to his face in surprise and the other landing on Cain's shoulder. When the servant pulled his hand away, Cain saw a small cut from one of Gladstone's rings, trickling blood down his skin.

"You are monopolizing my guests," the disgusting man snarled, and Riff straightened, releasing Cain's shoulder and placing both hands behind his back. He had tucked his emotions away in the same movement. The surprise, pain, and a small flicker of anger (or perhaps fear) had left his eyes, leaving them flat, and nearly lifeless. It was the first time Cain thought of him as a servant, as one of that invisible army which organizes and runs a house, a man who performed his task before disappearing. He didn't like the thought, or the association. He much preferred it when Riff was laughing, or smiling at him.

But he had to pretend, at the moment. He was on a mission, forgotten though it had been, and Gladstone couldn't find out who he truly was…

"My dear lady," he simpered, and Cain pressed his lips tightly together. "I fear I must apologize for my staff." Cain flicked his eyes towards Riff for a moment, and caught the tightening of his jaw only because he was looking for it. "I apologize for the indiscretion."

Cain smiled politely, organizing his words into an appropriately biting and barbed comment, but Riff spoke, quietly, before he could say a word. "If you'll forgive my saying so, Lord Gladstone, the lady requested a dance." _No, you fool, you'll only get yourself further into trouble! _"I have less right to refuse than I do to concede to the lady's wishes."

There was another sharp crack, turning the servant's head entirely. This time, Riff did not raise a hand in shock, did not move-he was far too used to this, Cain realized abruptly. He turned his attention back to Gladstone, the tension draining out of him as another decision was made. This man would die. But how? He had so many options, after all… he had some arsenic in his glove, some cyanide in his shoe, and oh, how glorious would it be to watch this man choke on air, unable to use the oxygen he was breathing in as he writhed on the floor until all movement ceased…

But the man was speaking again. "He has mistaken perceptions of preference above his station. Again, my apologies. Some dogs cannot be trained well."

Cain smiled, all teeth. "Forgive my ignorance of the subject, but in my experience, a dog mistreated has a harder bite than most, and is far more likely to use it." _How dare you, how dare you lay a hand on him, when he's more honest and a better man than you could ever hope to be… _"Leave him be, my lord. Dance with me." He held out a hand, delicate and slim in a black lace glove, and walked back onto the dance floor.

Cain glanced over Gladstone's shoulder casually, just in time to see Riff's expression, still tense with pain. A drop of blood traced slowly down his cheek in a mockery of tears.

Another box step, another turn, and the servant had disappeared.

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**A/N: So, um, this was completed far more quickly than I expected it to. I won't usually be uploading two things in one night!**

**I am looking forward to writing this one, though "When I Waked" might be put on hiatus for a while, as I'm definitely stuck with it. Describing what, exactly, is going on in Cain's head is going to be FUN. Oh, Cain...**

**But, here. Have a first chapter. It seems to be going fairly smoothly as far as writing is concerned, but please don't expect consistent updates. I make not promises, because I'll only end up breaking them.**

**Read and review, please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**See end of chapter for notes. **

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The only thing keeping Cain's smile on his face was imagining the way Cassandra Gladstone's biological systems would collapse under the influence of each and every one of his toxins. It was better stress relief than it should have been, by normal standards. He would have to remember it the next time he was feeling the urge to abandon his toxins and machinations and plotting and simply slit someone's throat.

However distasteful his scheme was becoming, when Gladstone leaned down into his ear and made a whispered-and entirely inappropriate-invitation, Cain giggled and blushed and allowed "herself" to be persuaded. It was the best way to escape from the party unnoticed, after all. Gladstone rest a hand on his lower back and steered him out of the ball room and towards his own chambers.

Perfect.

Cain let him press him up against a wall, lean in for a kiss-but turned his face away with a quiet, nervous gasp. "Milord, I'm-" he stammered. "I'm not certain…"

Gladstone pulled back, smirking faintly. "You seemed certain enough while we were dancing, Miss Harrell," he purred, and leaned in again. Cain stepped to the side.

"Yes, and I should never have agreed to it," he said, voice pitching higher in distress. "The walk has cleared my head, and…" he hesitated. It would be difficult to pull him in properly, to make it seem as if he was denying it for propriety's sake and not the fact that he found Lord Cassandra Gladstone revolting.

Gladstone pulled away entirely, clasping his hands behind his back as he thought. Cain quickly took the opportunity to pinch his cheeks, reddening them in an approximation of a shy blush. It would be so much more useful to know how to blush on command…

There was a decanter of brandy upon the side table, paired with two glasses, which he approached. "Perhaps a drink for my lady, then?" he offered. "To steady the nerves I have excited."

Cain bit his lip against a smile which would have been far too predatory for his current persona. "Oh, but I hate brandy," he complained, sitting with a rustle of skirts upon Gladstone's bed. The lord's eyes darkened noticeably. "But… perhaps some wine? I think a small drink would help to steady me."

Gladstone pursed his lips, but made a gesture of consent, and went to fetch some himself. Cain smiled. Good, Gladstone's desire to keep his public profile perfectly clean outweighed his reluctance to do things for himself. "Idiot." He didn't know how much time he had, but Cain stood again, moving to the decanter of brandy. He had a small vial tucked into his padded front, and he slipped it out, tapping two small drops into one of the glasses. Unfortunately, he couldn't kill him (yet) but the drug would prevent Gladstone from reappearing for the rest of the night. And Gladstone would wake the next day with an unbearable headache-something he would likely blame on a hangover. Cain purred, and flounced back to the bed, sprawling against the overly sumptuous duvet, skirts disarranged just enough to show a hint of ankle. He _loved _it when plans went so well.

Gladstone reentered with a bottle of wine and a glass, and Cain sat up eagerly, reaching for the glass with one gloved hand. "Oh!" he remembered, standing. "But, milord-how rude of me. You should have a drink, as well-perhaps some of the brandy you mentioned earlier?" he added, and moved again to the table. He poured a liberal splash into the drugged tumbler, and offered it to the man, trading it for the wine glass. He pretended to sip with a flirtatious smile, eagerly watching as the lord took a liberal drink of his own.

In under a minute, Gladstone had collapsed to the floor.

"Perhaps the dose was a little much," he mused, but left the unbearable lord where he'd fallen, and began a quick and efficient search of Gladstone's room. Little of use was found, aside from a small collection of ornate bottles which, when carefully sniffed, were most certainly not storing cologne. Cain slipped one into his fake bosom for safe keeping. They were likely some sort of drug-he'd have to test it, to be sure. However, the physical correspondence and most damning evidence was not kept in the bed chamber. It made sense, if Gladstone often had the sort of sexual adventure he had been expecting tonight.

Cain checked his reflection in the mirror, neatening his wig and tugging his dress straight. There. Perfect. Lipstick not even smudged.

He slipped out the door, intent upon developing a mental map of Gladstone's manor house. If Gladstone's correspondence wasn't kept in his bedchamber, it was more likely kept in his study… Or, possibly, somewhere else, but Gladstone had an obvious habit of underestimating those around him, particularly his domestic staff.

_Dogs indeed, _Cain thought to himself, and scoffed, setting off to explore.

* * *

Almost an hour's walking found Cain quite familiar with much of the manor, including a locked door he suspected was the relevant study. He didn't have time to go back to Gladstone's rooms in an attempt to find the matching key, so instead just made a mental note that, next time he was in the house, to make sure he had his picks with him. And there would definitely have to be a next time. Cain couldn't risk getting caught by a servant, or the drug wearing off too soon, and there was still far too much to do to not come back.

Simply put, Cain had too many pieces in the air at the moment to make his move now. Mary Harrell needed to disappear or Gladstone would know who had taken his messages as well as the drugs and Mary needed to be as separate from Cain as possible.

So Cain had left the study as it was, and was wandering closer to the servants' quarters than he should have been when he encountered a maid.

"Madame!" she shrieked, and Cain took several quick steps backwards, fluttering his hands as any proper lady would when flustered.

"Oh, I'm so sorry-" he protested, though he wasn't sorry in the least. "It's just-I got a little bit lost, you see. Lord Gladstone passed out, and I'm a little worried for him!" Not at all, but it might be best to send him help. It would help to cover his own trail, at the least.

The girl gasped and began to rush off-but Cain caught her wrist before she could get too far. She paused, and turned, tilting her head curiously. Cain stared at his hand, trying to think of why he'd done such a thing.

"Is there something else, madam?" she asked, then added, "Only I ought to send someone to check on milord."

Impertinence. Cain released her and opened his mouth to say no, nothing, that she was dismissed. Instead, to his eternal humiliation, he asked, "Do you know when Riff next has time off?"

She blinked. "Mr. Raffit?" she asked, an all too familiar gleeful light in her eye-the sort of light he'd seen any time someone had cause to gossip.

No pinching of the cheeks was necessary to make Cain flush this time. "Well, ah… yes, as it happens. But if you don't know, that's-I mean, that's okay, too."

The maid was definitely going to gossip about it. Oh, damnation. "I'm fairly certain it's next Thursday afternoon, but I can check! Wait here, Miss…?" she trailed off questioningly, and Cain swallowed. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Harrell. Miss Mary Harrell," he said, and told himself he wasn't excited. He took a few steps back and leaned against the wall.

The maid returned with two fellow conspirators and Cain flushed again. Without really knowing how it had happened, the three girls quickly arranged the entire thing, with very little input from him. Lizzie, the first one he had encountered, would tell Mr. Raffit (this was said with much giggling) that she (by which they meant Cain) would meet him in the Royal Botanical Gardens ("I've always wanted to meet someone there, it's the perfect romantic place!") at two o'clock ("His afternoon off starts at noon, of course, but he prefers to finish things up before leaving…" "Besides, one will only make you seem too eager!" "Yes, exactly, one is far too early.").

After the details were arranged, one of the maids was sent scurrying off for a carriage, while the other two stayed with Cain, giggling madly and making commentary along the lines of how romantic it was and, really, how lucky Miss Harrell was, as Mr. Raffit really was strikingly handsome and so very tall and strong and gallant and he used to be a _medical student, _did you know that?

Cain was most certainly _not _jealously sulking when the carriage arrived.

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**A/N: And Cain begins to get a tad bit over his head. Like anyone expected anything less. And he has a crush-that is furiously being denied, but is most definitely there. Oh, Cain. You're my favorite little bitch princess. **

**I think what I'm going to do (or at least try very very hard to do) is update weekly, alternating between _When I Waked _and _Pretty Maids. _Hopefully that will actually, you know, HAPPEN. I mentioned it in _When I Waked, _but I need to get in the habit of pushing through writer's block, rather than just waiting for inspiration, especially if I have any sort of hope for being professional. **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the new chapter, and please read and review!**

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**Anonymous Review replies! **

**Pikeboo: Yes, the long-awaited sister story. Heh. Sorry it took so long. I like to think my writing is always maturing-and I HAVE written a great deal between beginning Quite Contrary, finishing it, and beginning this. Practice makes perfect, and all, and I do try to write as much as I can. College is going well, thank you for asking! I'm currently passing through the summer before my senior year. **


	3. Chapter 3

**See end of chapter for notes.**

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Cain was not known for good decision making: rather the opposite, in fact. He did need to get back into Gladstone's house, and he couldn't do it as Mary Harrell, and he did need more information-but there were always options, and he was tempting fate. It was oddly reckless of him. He _should _have arranged the date to make sure Riff was out of the house and away when he visited, so he could concentrate on defeating Gladstone. He… hadn't, though.

So instead of doing the sensible thing and calling upon Lord Cassandra Gladstone on Thursday, Cain had befriended him at the opera on Sunday and secured an invitation for Tuesday afternoon. Cain couldn't decide if it would be lucky or unlucky to run into Riff again.

And of course Riff was the one to greet him at the door and take his coat. Cain gave him a polite smile and turned his attention back towards Gladstone, who had probably been waiting at the top of the stairs to make the appropriately grand and dramatic entrance.

"Earl Hargreaves, a pleasure to see you again," the man simpered, offering a hand. Cain took it with a smile, imagined Gladstone's gums and teeth rotting until they fell out. "I'm afraid I have a few last minute papers to fill out for a loan…"

"Ah?" he interrupted lightly, dropping his hand again. The opening was too good, too _easy _to take, and Gladstone was a clumsier duelist than he had expected. What an obvious lie. "I'm shocked to hear you're in need of money, Lord Gladstone. Shall I…?"

He had hit. Gladstone winced, and laughed immediately to cover it up, but Cain couldn't resist his smile slipping towards a smirk, or a rapid glance towards Riff. The servant seemed to be amused, but had begun to walk away. "No, no, of course not," Gladstone laughed. "Quite the opposite, in fact, as a colleague is in need. I'll have you shown to the sitting room, if you don't mind waiting for a few minutes." He gestured towards Riff, giving an implicit order.

Riff bowed in both their directions, and offered, "If you'll follow me, please."

Cain followed him, hands clasped behind his back. He kept his eyes on the wall, inspecting the paintings without actually looking at them. This time, Cain couldn't bring himself to risk another glance at Riff, to see if Riff was looking at him-so he actually passed him when Riff stopped at the sitting room. His mild humiliation deepened to indignation when he saw that Riff was _laughing _at him. Tossing his head, Cain glared at the man, before turning his back and throwing himself across the settee. How dare he? As far as Riff knew, they'd never even met before! Impudence!

"If there is anything you might need, the staff is of course at your disposal," Riff said, having regained his control. Cain refused to be drawn out of his sulk so easily.

"The only thing I need is for Lord Gladstone to not primp and play with his toilette for half an hour to prove he has the power to make me incredibly bored." He was taking his frustration out on Riff, perhaps, but he'd been wound far too tightly for nearly a week now, and it was all Riff's fault anyway, that he couldn't get the other man out of his head. He glanced at Riff, noted his surprise, and stared again at the head of his cane, which contained a soporific he dearly wished to use on Gladstone. "Please," he scoffed. "It's incredibly obvious he was lying about some sort of loan. A pitiful attempt to impress me with his wealth when in reality he'll be grooming in front of his sitting room mirror." Impossibly vain man. "Unless you care to entertain me?" Cain tossed out without deciding too. It was an honest thought, but he couldn't admit that, so he rolled his eyes in Riff's direction again, wondering what he would do.

"I can bring you some tea?" The offer was more of a question, and Cain tensed, remembering his father's sugar, the scent of roses.

"No," he snapped instantly. "Thank you. I don't drink tea brewed by others." He looked away. Never again, he'd never be that vulnerable again.

"Understood, milord." Cain blinked. Wait, really? Riff couldn't really understand. "If you would like something to drink regardless, I could fetch the needed components for you." A pause. "Even taste-test them, if need be."

Cain sat up to look at him, thoughtfully, his sulking long forgotten. Riff was so infallibly honest… How strange. How very, very strange. "Do you often treat guests with such consideration?" If this was only standard behavior-Cain reclined again, closing his eyes. "Though I suppose your master would be displeased if I wasn't attended to properly. Yes, tea would be lovely." He hesitated a long moment, and added, "Thank you," as Riff left. In the end, he wasn't even sure the servant heard him. An odd man. An _honest _man, and that was somewhat dangerous.

With a sigh, Cain draped one arm across his eyes. Riffael Raffit was causing him a cursed amount of confusion. He couldn't manipulate him, not easily, not without some protest from his long silent conscious. And this offer of tea… the creativity and consideration in it, for a man who was not his master, a man he didn't even know… How could one person be so compassionate? It didn't make sense.

The tray clinked as it was set upon the table, and Cain peeked out from under his arm, watching Riff. He did as he had promised, tasting the cream, the sugar, and even the water. The tea was left alone, however, and Cain resisted comment. Dried botanical poisons could be slipped into tea, after all, crushed finely enough that even a toxicologist wouldn't recognize them. Besides, a trace dose in, say, the cream, would be detrimental to Cain and only mildly worrisome to Riff, given their size difference. Riff was tall (excessively so), and broad, and strong and warm where Cain was slight-willowy, his former tailor had said, but that was a word to describe girls and why Cain didn't go to him any longer.

Riff met his eyes and Cain looked back up at the ceiling, trying to reorganize his thoughts. Gladstone. Gladstone was his priority. Most definitely _not _remembering how those hands would feel, strong and steady and resting on his waist...

The door clicked shut as Riff left. Cain rolled over, and screamed into a throw pillow.

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**A/N: ...There's really no excuse for having taken so long with this chapter, except that I just really didn't feel like writing anything. I'm sorry. Ignore anything I've said about weekly updates. It's not going to happen. I'll try, but no promises. I'm still working for another twelve days (!) before I go home... and then my college starts on the tenth of September. And then I'm looking into grad schools and figuring out what I'll do next year... **

**Eek. The future. **

**Anyway, um... please read and review! I'll say it again, but look at poisonandperfection's "A Case of Blackmail." It's good and I highly recommend it. **

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**No anonymous reviewers this time, so no anonymous review replies! Please read and review.**


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